


Even If I Had Ten Mouths, There's Not Enough Ears

by OwenToDawn



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Fire Emblem: Soen no Kiseki/Akatsuki no Megami | Fire Emblem Path of Radiance/Radiant Dawn
Genre: Aftercare, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Consensual Blackmail, Dom/sub, Edge Play, Fear Play, Frottage, Guilt, Identity Issues, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Painplay, Punishment, Threats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:49:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25860850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwenToDawn/pseuds/OwenToDawn
Summary: Claude needs a break from trying to hold the Leicester Alliance together, so Shamir gets him in contact with an old friend
Relationships: Claude von Riegan/Foruka | Volke
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Even If I Had Ten Mouths, There's Not Enough Ears

**Author's Note:**

> First - this is NOT a consensual non-consent fic. All sexual activity is post-scene and is entirely consensual outside of the scene. But this fic does contain consensual blackmailing and physical punishment that has been pre-negotiated and can seem as coercion in parts but Claude consents multiple times throughout the scene to what's happening
> 
> Second - I know this pairing is weird. I had this idea and wasn't sure who the Dom in this situation could be, and then Volke from Fire Emblem Path of Radiance came to mind. I feel like he's one of the only characters that could easily and soundly put Claude on his back foot and easily rein him in so that's what I went with
> 
> Third - I wrote this over the span of 8 hours. I have checked it over once but I apologize for any errors
> 
> Comments are loved. The title is from Zinza by Woo Wonjae

Claude pretends to sip his beer and reclines in his chair as he surveys the room. The bar Shamir had directed him to appears to be like any other bar at first glance, an odd assortment of men and women, mostly mercenary types from the look of them. But a closer examination reveals something else. Collars adorn the necks of men and women who keep their gazes down out of deference, but even the flashiest of the collars could be missed or mistaken for a fashion choice half hidden by hair or clothing. For every person he finds with their gaze turned down or a half step behind their drinking partner, he eventually finds some symbol of ownership adorning them. It can’t possibly be coincidence.

But not everyone is paired off. Others mingle from table to table, arms raising to tuck back a stray piece of hair or adjust their jacket or shirt and flashing small strips of fabric that circle their wrists in the process. Claude has yet to figure out what they mean. He assumes it has something to do with the same reason he’s here, but then, he’s sure everyone’s interests are different, and his even more so. That’s why Shamir had found this place to begin with.

" _You want to ask for the Fireman when you go, and then sit where the bartender tells you. He’ll show up or he won’t. If he doesn’t, don’t ever ask for him again.”_

It was all very cloak and dagger, but then Shamir had also told him this elusive Fireman used to be an assassin. Apparently, they’d worked together on a job – and more. He knows somewhere in this dingy bar, the Fireman is watching him and assessing if he thinks Claude is worth his time. It leaves him feeling off balance. He’s used to sliding masks into place depending on who he’s interacting with, making sure to meet whatever expectation they have of him while getting what he wants without them realizing it. But here…how does he know which mask to wear when he knows nothing about what’s expected of him? It’s frustrating and oddly exhilarating.

He needs a break from all the Alliance quibbling as war ravages the other two thirds of the continent. He needs to not worry about his words being ignored and his skin color used as a weapon against his credibility. He needs a break. Shamir had been the only one he trusted to ask but she’d just given him a sad look and promised that she wished she could. But at least she’d led him here. Even if the Fireman decides he’s not worth talking to, he might be able to find someone else to use as a distraction.

“Worried that the drinks are poisoned?”

It takes everything in Claude not to startle at the quiet but deep voice against his ear. He tightens his grip on the arm of his chair and sets the beer down with his other, keeping his motions as smooth as possible.

“I’ve never been a fan of eating or drinking anything I haven’t prepared myself,” Claude says. “Call it habit.”

The voice laughs, barely louder than a breath, and then the heat at his back retreats and a man slides into view before him. He’s tall and wiry, clothed in practical brown leathers and soft cottons that nearly match his short brown hair. His face is attractive, but plain enough that it’s easy to forget if Claude saw him in a crowd. He sits down in the chair opposite of Claude and shifts to rest his right ankle across his left knee before leaning back.

“You’re not a mercenary, and you’re no general, so that means you must be royalty,” the man says.

Claude drops his hand to his lap, closer to where his knife that he keeps tucked in the waistband of his pants near his hip lays. Adrenaline pumps through him and he tries to cycle through who would be after him here of all places.

“Even when you’re scared, your eyes don’t show anything,” the man says. “Relax. I’m the man you asked for.”

“You’re observant,” Claude says, because his heart is still racing too fast for him to think of anything wittier. He can’t remember the last time someone snuck up on him.

“So are you. What have you figured out about this place so far?” the man asks.

"People who are taken have collars and are sticking close to their dominants. Those who aren’t or are looking to engage with someone else are wearing different colors on their wrists,” Claude says. “Though I’m not sure which colors mean what. I assume it has to do with their interests.”

“Correct,” the man says. “Fódlan is strange, and very backwards in most ways. It isn’t safe to be open about one’s interests and desires for a variety of reasons, and yet people have figured out how to communicate them in a way that avoids detection from most casual viewers. It’s remarkable in a way, if somewhat of a pain.”

“I don’t think you’re one to talk given the song and dance I had to go through just to speak with you,” Claude says, but there’s no heat in his voice. The adrenaline that had moments ago pumped through his veins has mellowed out into something easier to endure. Something…pleasant.

“I’m good at what I do, and I do it for profit, and I don’t like wasting my time,” the man says. “If someone isn’t willing to sit and stew for an hour then they aren’t worth my time.”

“I didn’t wait an hour,” Claude says, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “So what does that mean for me?”

“You’ve made me curious,” the man says. “You’re not Fódlan royalty.”

“I’m the leader of the Alliance.”

The man shakes his head, lips twisting into a frown like he’s disappointed and Claude is struck by the intensity with which he’s upset by that thought.

"That would make you nobility at best,” the man says. “No, you’re royalty.”

“While I’m flattered you think so, that’s all I am,” Claude says. He doesn’t try for anything more elaborate. Looking at the man’s calculating grey eyes, he can’t help but feel as though any more elaborate of a lie would turn to ash in his mouth.

“We can revisit that later then,” the man says. “Shamir tells me you’re looking for a way to get out of your head, but that’s too vague for me to work with. What exactly do you want?”

Claude wets his lips, throat feeling dry. “I want to be afraid.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “In what way?”

"In…I want someone to…”

“If you can’t even say it, then I’m leaving,” the man says.

Claude shuts his eyes and exhales once, harsh. “I want someone to act out my greatest fears so I’m not afraid of them anymore.”

“And what are those fears?”

“I’m not entirely sure. I have a rough idea,” Claude says. “But I…”

When he opens his eyes, the man is still staring at him, but he’s not frowning anymore and his face is entirely neutral.

“Is it rape?”

Claude shakes his head. “No, not that, more…blackmail.”

“Secrets. You want someone to threaten to expose you because you’re terrified of being exposed,” the man says. “And how does that work when you’re still lying to my face? The fear doesn’t work if I don’t know what exactly it is you’re afraid of people discovering.”

“My identity,” Claude says.

“Hm.” The man reaches out and grabs Claude’s beer, staring down into it for a moment before taking a sip. Claude knows the action is supposed to mean something, but he feels so off kilter, he can’t even begin to think what it’s supposed to be. “So we can go about this one of two ways. One is safe. The other isn’t, and could cause further trauma, or it could accomplish what you want.”

"What’s the safe option?”

“I can create a scene working off exposing your identity, but you’ll never know what it is I know,” the man says. “Because I won’t actually know anything. I’ll be going off your cues and what limited information you choose to give me.”

“And what’s the other?”

“I dig into who you are. I get as much information as I can, and I reveal it to you in a way that makes you fear for your safety,” the man says. “It will very much be real, except that I have no actual desire to blackmail you because there’s nothing you have that I could want. But you would have to trust me, and we did just meet.”

“I’m already trusting you just by being here, aren’t I?” Claude asks, feigning an indifference he doesn’t feel.

“Yes, and there’s nothing stopping me from digging into just who you are when I leave either,” the man says. “But that’s not the issue. The issue is whether you want me to bring this carefully guarded secret to you during a scene.”

Claude swallows, heart pounding a little harder in his chest, a loud thump that makes his ribs feel like they should be rattling. “I do.”

The man nods. “Okay. And what do you want me to use this blackmail for? Do you want me to extort sexual favors from you? Humiliate you?”

"Not…not the last one. I don’t need to hear any more insults about where I come from,” Claude says. “I don’t know about sexual extortion either, but I find pain helps me stop thinking. Pain and fear.”

“So if I were to make you endure a great deal of pain in exchange for my silence?”

Claude shifts in his chair, hating the way he can feel himself getting turned on by the prospect when sitting in front of a man he just met. “That sounds…very good.”

The man pointedly glances down at Claude’s lap. “Are you certain you don’t want sex?”

“Maybe after?” Claude sighs, trying to find some semblance of calm again. “Anything sexual I would want as a reward, and I wouldn’t want anything tied to it to make it feel like I’m being coerced or taken advantage of.”

"I can work with that,” the man says. “Before you leave, I want a list of your physical and emotional limits, things that are entirely off the table and things I can do without asking. Leave it with the bartender. We can meet here in two weeks.”

“And payment? For everything?” Claude asks.

The man tilts his head to the side as if he’s confused for the first time though why, Claude can’t even begin to guess. It’s not as though he wasn’t told up front that this would be transactional.

“I must be going soft in my old age. I never used to do things for free,” the man says. “But this time, I’m curious, and I don’t want to muddy this with actual payment. If it truly bothers you though, I can give you a price.”

“It only feels right if you’re going to spend resources on figuring out who I am,” Claude says.

“Twenty thousand gold then,” the man says.

“I’ll have it when I come,” Claude says. “And…can I get your name?”

“It’s Volke,” he says. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“It’s a deal.”

-.-

Claude knows, deep down, that this is all fake, but the fear of what exactly Volke did manage to find on him is still very much real. Despite that, he happily lets Volke tie him up in the bedroom of a small cottage, letting himself believe for a moment that this is the casual hook up Volke implied it was when he found him again in the bar. His chest is already bare, but it isn’t until his hands are secure that Volke goes for his pants, stripping them down with his underthings and dropping a shockingly soft kiss at his hip in the process.

“Safe word?” Volke asks.

“Hilda.”

He really hopes Hilda never finds out about this, but really, he wanted to use her name not only because he’d never use it in bed, but also because…Hilda makes him feel safe. Maybe he’s a sap. Volke’s gaze, which had been somewhat amused, goes sharp and unreadable and for the first time since they met, a twist of real fear spikes through his gut. The feeling only escalates when instead of getting on the bed or taking off his own clothes, Volke turns and drags the trunk near the foot of the bed out and sets it on Claude’s side of the bed before taking a seat on it.

“Well this isn’t how my one night stands usually go,” Claude says, flashing a smile.

“I don’t like being lied to,” Volke says, folding his arms across his chest. “And that smile is a lie.”

“Can you blame me? You’re making this kind of weird,” Claude says. Already, he can feel his brain whirling with a variety of ways he can try and get out of this frankly strange situation.

“Perhaps if it was just a smile, I could let it go,” Volke says. “But it’s not, is it?”

His heart races and he twists a little, just to feel the give of the silk ropes without actually making them tighten as the fabric type often does. There’s no give. “I haven’t lied about anything.”

“No? You said you were a noble,” Volke says.

“Yeah, and I am. You can’t fake a Crest.” Claude rolls his eyes and lifts one of his legs to brace his heel against the bed, blood pumping hard when he watches Volke’s eyes track the motion and he realizes with increasing dread that truly nothing will escape this man’s observation. There’s no slight of hand he can pull with such a watchful eye.

"But you didn’t tell me what else you were,” Volke says. “I’d say I’m hurt, but honestly, if the roles were reversed, I probably would’ve hit it too.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Claude says.

“No?” Volke leans back to brace himself on the trunk with his hands. “Perhaps getting dragged behind a horse as a child robbed you of your memories.”

Claude snorts. “A common story most my friends know, though I’ve gotta say it’s a bit creepy that you talked to my friends about me and then acted like you didn’t know me.”

“You think you’re intelligent, don’t you?” Volke asks. “Even now, I can see the wheels spinning in your head as you think about how exactly you’re going to get yourself out of this one. It’s one thing to survive assassination attempts, but that’s not quite what this is, is it?”

“Every noble deals with assassination plots-“

“Usually not six different ones before the age of ten.”

And just like that, it’s like the bottom of his whole world has dropped out from beneath him, like time has frozen even the blood in his veins.

“What.”

“That’s a lot of attempts just for a noble child, isn’t it?” Volke asks. “I used to be hired for such things, and I never took a hit on a child, but I’ve been around long enough to know that number is quite a bit higher than one would see for a simple noble.” He sighs and gets to his feet. “And that’s not even getting into the one when you were seventeen.” 

Claude jerks in his bonds as Volke’s fingers slide along the scar under his left rib cage. “I don’t-“

"If the knife had been longer or hit higher up, it would’ve actually hit your heart, but it just got your lung,” Volke says. “It’s amazing you survived either way.”

“How do you know that?” Claude asks, and he can’t even try to keep the fear out of his voice and the knot in his throat that makes him feel like he’s choking. Truly, Claude is in awe, or he would be if he didn’t feel like his world was crashing down around him.”

“I know everything about you, Prince Khalid.”

Panic. It overwhelms his senses and the name clamors around his head like a bell, shattering any thoughts before he can even think them. He thrashes in his bonds, inhales harsh and fast and gasps because it’s still not enough. And Volke just stares. He watches with a cold gaze and it isn’t long before Claude goes limp, the fight draining out of him as quickly as it had flooded in.

“You’re intelligent, like I said,” Volke says. “Nothing you do stops what I know. But…I suppose my silence can be bought.”

“I already gave you twenty thousand.”

Volke laughs at that, properly, throwing his head back like it’s the funniest thing Claude has ever said. “I’m not one of your foolish nobles at court, I don’t care about money. I want to be entertained.”

“I can do that,” Claude says without a moment of hesitation.

“Oh, you think you can?”

“I can be anything you want just…you can’t tell anyone, it’ll ruin everything,” Claude says.

“I believe you,” Volke says. His fingers trail up Claude’s chest to grab his jaw, his grip firm. “I think you’ll be good for me, and be anything I ask, because you’ve finally recognized that you have no power here. I do.”

“I…”

A slap, Volke’s hand releasing him and cracking across his cheek faster than he can process, and it sends him reeling. “Tell me who has power over you.”

“You do,” Claude gasps out. “You have power over me.”

“Good boy.”

The praise hits his ears in such a soft and caring tone, it confuses all of Claude’s sense and somehow leaves him more off kilter than the slap did. Volke turns towards the trunk and flips the clasps up before opening the top, revealing a literal treasure trove of whips and floggers and fucking _knives_ and Claude scrambles for some semblance of strength because _what the fuck_. He’s almost grateful when all Volke removes is a jar of some sort of cream and what looks like a metal wand with a horse spur attached to it. That’s…better than knives.

"So if you endure everything I have in mind, I think I will be more than happy to forget all that I’ve learned about you, Khalid,” Volke says. He shuts the trunk and turns back to Claude.

“Don’t call me that,” Claude says.

Volke doesn’t even blink, his facial expression blank. “Just because you want to lie to everyone around you doesn’t mean I’m willing to indulge it.”

The words cut away what little strength Claude had managed to pull together and he goes limp once more. The silk rubs harsh against his wrists. Volke approaches the bed and sets the items down on it before reaching up and untying to binding on Claude’s right hand. This, if anything, is his chance. He can fight. He can put an end to it. There’s a name he can say that will end the whole scene. But he stays still, pinned in place by the churning guilt and fear mixing together in his gut. Volke binds his hand again with a different knot that will make it harder to tighten up and hurt Claude, and then he stretches across the bed to do the same with his other hand.

“Very good boy,” Volke says when he finishes. “Thank you.”

Volke moves to stand by the bed once more and grabs the metal wand with its spur and without any warning, runs a line down the center of Claude’s chest to just below his belly button. He shouts, back arching into the spur even as it sends skittering sensations all over his skin. The spurs are dull, but still sharp enough to poke and slip into that odd space between something painful or ticklish and he wants nothing more than to get away. But he can’t. Volke hums out a thoughtful noise and runs the spur back up at an angle, stopping just shy of his right nipple. Claude bites his lip around a noise of frustration, one of his heels kicking down at the bed as his body is left hanging in anticipation of a worse pain.

“Are you always this sensitive or is it just because I’ve managed to cast away any pretense you could’ve clung to that you’re safe?” Volke asks.

Claude stares at him, incredulous, because he can barely think straight let alone analyze what the sensations he’s experiencing feel like now compared to other times. Apparently, Volke doesn’t want an answer. He looks down at Claude’s chest and runs another line from side to side, level with his nipples but not touching either of them. Part of him craves it just so he knows what it feels like so he can figure out how to endure it, but a deeper part of him, the primal part that claws at his insides in terror, just wants it all to stop. He bites down on the instinct and takes a deep breath.

As if reading his thoughts on his face, Volke moves his hand again and the filed edges of the spur dig into his left nipple and he arches again with a shout. But Volke doesn’t stop. He just runs it back and forth, over and over, as Claude shakes and trembles and tries to place the sensation firmly in a category but finds it impossible. As quickly as he started, Volke stops, and Claude collapses back down onto the bed like a puppet cut free of its master’s strings. He realizes all at once that there’s tears watering in his eyes. It feels like he’s being cracked open, bit by bit, but he has a sinking feeling in his gut that he hasn’t yet shattered. That carries with it the fear of what will happen when he does.

Moments later, any thoughts are chased from his mind as Volke engages in the same tactic on his right nipple, rolling the spur back and forth again. He looks disinterested as Claude shouts and writhes beneath him. It leaves Claude feeling unmoored. How could he not feel a flicker of emotion having the prince of Almyra shouting in pain beneath him? IF anything, it just drives home the fact that Claude holds no power here at all.

“Imagine if I used this on your balls instead,” Volke says as he pulls the spur away.

Claude inhales with a harsh noise. “Please…”

“Oh?” Volke looks down and Claude draws his thighs together, painfully aware of how hard this all has him.

“Please I…I’m…”

Silence sits heavy in the air between them as Volke stares down at him, pinning him where he lays with his stone-like gaze. In the end, Claude shakes his head. He doesn’t even know what it was he was going to say. Volke sighs and turns away, setting the spur on the nightstand and then grabbing the jar and twisting the top off. He dips his fingers in it and Claude’s nose wrinkles as a peppermint-like smell hits his nostrils. It’s the only warning he gets before Volke smears the cream on both of his nipples and it takes everything in him not to make a sound at the burning and cooling sensation it leaves behind.

Somewhere, in his pain addled mind, he remembers Petra giving him some for his muscle aches after a battle. It had felt fine then. Now, on nipples that have already been tortured, it feels like fire. He shifts on the bed, but it doesn’t help. His arms jerk as he reflexively moves to try and wipe it off, but he can’t do that either, and that just sends another flood of adrenaline through him once more. A noise escapes him, half groan and half curse. Volke just watches.

And then he reaches for the spur.

It drags across his right nipple and Claude…Claude screams.

The burning and puncturing sensations twist together and wrench noise after noise from him as Volke methodically runs the spur over his nipple again and again before stopping long enough for Claude to relax. Then he starts again and Claude shouts and squirms, legs kicking out. The spur rolls over his left nipple and bites into the flesh. His brain sparks and fizzes as it tries to process the myriad of sensations and he can feel his chest vibrating with noise, but he can’t even hear what he’s saying or doing over the rush of blood in his ears. The spur leaves and Claude collapses back down and tries to remember how to breathe.

Distantly, he’s aware of Volke moving away and opening the trunk again. Less distantly, he feels hot tears on his cheeks and hears his own ragged voice spilling out incoherent whimpers with every breath. The trunk lid thuds shut and then Volke is shifting to sit on the bed beside Claude. Through blurry eyes, Claude looks up at him, his chest feeling cold inside at the unfeeling stare he’s greeted with. But then a warm hand presses to his cheek and lips press to his forehead.

“You’re handling this very well, Khalid. Good boy,” Volke says. Then he raises his other hand up and Claude sees it’s wrapped in black leather, except metal studs poke through the palm of it and they look sharper than the spur did.

“No, please, no, I can’t…”

“Shh, take a deep breath.”

Claude does his best, but it still comes out shaky when he exhales. Fear still pulses through him and the burning sensation on his nipples keeps interrupting his thoughts, making it impossible to focus without an extreme amount of effort. But he tries.

“Good boy. Now, do you remember what you can say to make this stop?”

Claude nods.

“Say it for me.”

“Hilda,” Claude manages to croak out.

“Good job, thank you Khalid. Do you need to say it for real? Do you need to stop?”

After a moment of hesitation, he shakes his head. Volke nods.

“Alright. I’m not done with you yet.”

It’s all the warning Claude has before Volke slaps his hand down on the right side of his ribcage. It bites harder than the spur, but his addled brain can still tell that it isn’t sharp enough to break the skin. He lets out a low groan and his head lolls to the side as his eyes struggle to focus. Volke drags his hand to the side over to his left side and leaves a trail of sharp bright pain behind in the process. He’s reminded, strangely, of the way his mother used to rub his stomach when he felt sick, the motions firm and smooth as Volke rubs his hand all over Claude’s abdomen. It’s far from soothing.

The hand pulls away and then comes down hard against his left nipple, the sudden pain of it drawing a shriek from somewhere deep in his chest. The burning cream comes back to life at the sensation. Tears pour from his eyes as Volke rubs his hand into him, harsh and rough. Then it’s gone and Claude is left to collapse back down yet again, shivering and shaking as the sensations ricochet through him. When he catches his breath, Volke has moved to sit by his hip and he’s placed the jar of cream between them both.

“One more thing,” Volke says. “But I’ll let you choose. Either I stroke you off with this glove or I stroke you off with the cream.”

And somehow, _somehow_ , after everything he’s been through, Claude finds that it’s this that throws him off his axis once more and leaves him shattered in pieces.

“ _Please_ , I _can’t_ , please don’t….I can’t…I’m…” Claude inhales, hating the way his tears clog his throat and hating the way Volke just stares at him completely unbothered by it all.

“What are you?” Volke asks, voice soft.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, please, I’m sorry…” It’s like a dam has broken and the words spill out of him in a rush with no hope of stopping.

“What are you sorry for?”

“For lying!” he gasps out. “I’m sorry for lying about who I am, I promise, I’m so sorry, please-“

“And who are you?”

“Khalid. My name is Khalid.”

Volke pulls the glove off and tosses it aside, and then knocks the jar away for good measure before moving up and straddling Khalid’s hips, holding his face between his hands. “Good boy, Khalid.”

-.-

Khalid comes too when Volke eases him down into warm water. Although maybe that’s a generous way to describe the hazy sort of space his brain seems to exist in as he takes in the sensations singing through his body. He aches, everywhere. Even in places Volke didn’t touch.

“May I join you?”

Khalid’s eyes slide open and he sees Volke standing beside the tub, stripped down to his underclothes. “Please…”

Volke offers a smile, not quite a full beaming smile, but something soft and warm that’s nothing like the cold calculation he’d had in the bedroom. He removes the rest of the clothing an steps into the bath. For a moment, Khalid hesitates, and then he shifts, groaning as his body protests, and all but throws himself into Volke’s grip, prompting a snort from the man as he does so.

“Impatient,” he says.

“I’ve been so patient,” Khalid mumbles into Volke’s neck. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Volke says. Volke holds him for a moment longer and then pushes him back before grabbing a cloth and wiping it with a careful touch across Khalid’s chest and sore nipples. Khalid hisses and squirms but stays where he is. “Good job, I know it hurts.”

“I wanted it to,” Khalid says.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t do a good job enduring it,” Volke says.

He finishes cleaning Khalid up and then pulls him forward again and Khalid goes, tucking his face against Volke’s neck and relaxing into his grip. Some part of him, the deep part that’s spent the last several years hiding everything, howls at how easily he lets someone he barely knows hold him so closely, but…even if he doesn’t know Volke, it’s clear Volke knows him. There’s no reason to try and hide anything.

“You’re carrying quite the burden,” Volke says after a moment. “And quite a good deal of guilt.”

“It doesn’t feel as bad now,” Khalid murmurs. He shivers as Volke’s fingers trail up and down his back beneath the water. “I…did you know I was going to break like that?”

“No,” Volke says. “I knew you were hiding something and needed to get it out, but I wasn’t sure what it was until the first apology. I also knew you wouldn’t feel like it was a satisfying scene until you said whatever it was that was on your mind.”

Khalid lets out a breath and lets his eyes slide shut. “I’m terrified I won’t be forgiven by those I love.”

“Perhaps you won’t be,” Volke says. “But you remind me of someone I once knew…I don’t think you have to worry about that. People are drawn to you and your cause.”

“Where did you even come from?” Khalid asks, pushing himself upright as the curiosity manages to overwhelm his need to not move at all. “And how did you find out all that stuff about me?”

“I was an assassin for years,” Volke says. “It’s my job to know things. And I still carry the secrets of many a noble, king, princess, and general because people trust me to hold onto information they’ve hidden and reveal it to those they care about in the event of their deaths. You are not the first prince I’ve met who hides his identity for his own purposes.”

“Oh great, so I’m a cliché,” Khalid says, lips tugging up into a smile.

He watches as Volke’s eyes widen and then he laughs, as if it’s been startled out of him. “No…Prince Khalid, no you are not a cliché.”

Khalid smiles wider and shifts back down so he can be in Volke’s arms again. They lay together until the water cools and then Volke eases them both out, drying them both off with a brisk but careful hand before guiding Khalid back to bed. When he’d first met Volke, he hadn’t taken the man for the type to cuddle, but he’s grateful when Volke spoons up behind him and holds him close.

“I didn’t peg you to be the type for this,” Khalid says.

“I’ve spent years harming people for money,” Volke murmurs against the back of his neck. “I much prefer doing this for payment instead, what can I say?”

Khalid falls asleep before he can think of a suitable response.

-.-

The next time he wakes up, it’s grinding his cock against Volke’s thigh in the soft morning light. He stops as he comes to full awareness, flushing hard. Volke’s hand squeezes the back of his neck and the chest he’s resting his cheek on vibrates with a low humming noise.

“You don’t have to stop, Khalid,” Volke says, voice rough with sleep.

Khalid likes the way his name sounds, and he drives his hips forward again with a low noise, enjoying the way it feels. Volke sighs and runs his fingers through Khalid’s hair as he grinds his cock against the soft skin of Volke’s thigh again, fucking against it with slow and syrupy motions, mind still hazy from sleep. He gasps and tightens his grip on Volke’s side, humping a little faster.

“Hm, good boy, just like that,” Volke says.

The praise washes over him and Khalid pushes himself up, pressing a sloppy kiss to Volke’s chin. Volke laughs again, that short low sound that makes his gut feel warm. Then he’s shifting to press their lips together and Khalid rocks harder, soft noises escaping him with each thrust. When he comes, his whole body goes tight, eyes opening wide as he stares down at Volke. This time, meeting Volke’s eyes doesn’t hurt. Not when he stares back at Khalid with such open affection and warmth.

When he’s done, Volke pushes him down with a gentle hand. “Clean up your mess, Khalid.”

And Khalid obeys, licking his come off Volke’s thigh with his tongue before sliding his lips back up and taking Volke’s half hard cock in his mouth as well. Volke hisses out his name again, a hand pushing into his hair and holding on tight as Khalid moves. He doesn’t control Khalid’s motions at all, just lets Khalid lick and suck at whatever he pleases, but he likes the threat of the pressure of Volke’s hand and the knowledge that at any time, he could take control. And Khalid knows he would let him.

But for now, he just bobs his head and moans softly to make Volke’s hips jerk up like he can’t quite control himself. This feels less like the scene they did before and more like…sex. Companionship. Closeness the way humans crave with one another without all the baggage that needs to be attached. It’s easy in a way it never has been. Perhaps because he’s already been seen. There’s no performance to put on when Volke already knows every intimate part of his body and mind.

"Deep breath,” Volke says.

Khalid pulls back and obeys, and then Volke’s hand tightens in his hair and pushes him down, down until his cock pushes into Khalid’s throat. He swallows around it, listens to Volke curse. Volke pulls him up once and then back down again, pressing deep until his balls push against Khalid’s chin and then he’s coming down Khalid’s throat with a sigh. He releases Khalid when he’s done, but Khalid takes his time coming back up, tasting what bit of come he can that drips from the tip of Volke’s cock.

Once he’s satisfied, he crawls back up and all but sprawls on top of Volke, driving the man’s breath out of him with the action. For a moment, neither of them say anything, but Khalid knows it’s the end.

“I have to go,” he says.

“It’s okay. You know how to find me if you need a space to be yourself again.”

Khalid nods and pulls himself from the bed. He dresses and tidies up his hair as best he can, pulling on his sashes and the markings of his mother’s house. Volke kisses him once more at the foot of the bed and then Claude von Riegan walks out the door.


End file.
